Pride
Page 74
“Not that I know of. I think this was just about Pride politics. Calvin Malone trying to gain control of as many tabbies as he can.”
Five minutes later, my mother emerged from the office, leaving silence in her wake. She crossed directly into the kitchen and pulled the teapot from the stove. I thought I was the only one who noticed her hand shaking until Owen rose to take the pot from her, dropping his hat in his chair on the way.
“I’m sorry, hon,” she whispered, stroking his arm as he set the pot on the tile countertop. I think she just wanted to touch him. To reassure herself that he was real. Because Owen was now her youngest son.
When she stopped shaking, my mother served us tea in tiny china cups that looked like toys in the guys’ huge hands. I sipped something spiced with cinnamon, but the ten minutes it took for me to drain my cup were pure torture. Dan kept glancing at the doorway, as if he wanted to leave but didn’t want to be rude. And didn’t know where to go. And it occurred to me then that he was stuck there with us, an outsider in our private hell.
My mother and Owen stared at the tabletop, occasionally wiping their eyes with a tissue from the box she’d put in the middle of the table, apparently content to suffer quietly.
I couldn’t take it. I could do silence on my own.
When my first cup was empty, I set it in the sink and announced that I was going to go check on Jace. No one even looked up.
My father was still alone in his office, staring down at his desk blotter, sipping from another short glass. Jace wasn’t in either the dining room or the living room, so on my way to the back door, I checked the room Ethan and Owen had shared, just in case. It was empty, thank goodness. I wasn’t sure I could handle being in there just yet.
I also checked on Kaci, who seemed to be sleeping now, rather than truly unconscious. She was even snoring lightly, and had turned onto her side, while Dr. Carver dozed in the chair beside her bed, his mouth hanging open. Now that I knew the kitten was okay. I couldn’t help hoping her nap would last a little while. I had to get myself under control before I could explain Ethan’s death to the thirteen-year-old he’d died defending.
I headed into the backyard, where the frozen grass—stubbornly resisting the weak warmth of the winter sun—reminded me that I’d forgotten my shoes. Instead of going back for them, I raced across the yard toward the guesthouse. The frigid air and bright morning light were invigorating, but did nothing to alleviate the black mood that had enveloped me with Ethan’s death and showed no sign of fading.
The rough wood planks of the guesthouse porch were a relief to my feet after sharp, icy blades of grass, and I paused to gather myself before going in. But my thoughts weren’t clear enough to truly organize, so I opened the door and stepped inside anyway. I’d have to wing it.
The door creaked and gave away my presence, but Jace didn’t look up. He sat on the floor, leaning against the beat-up couch with his knees bent in front of his chest, his heavily wrapped right arm draped over them. His head hung low, as if his neck would no longer support it. His shirt lay on the floor against the opposite wall, where he’d obviously thrown it after the doc had cut it off to tend to his injury.
In that moment, for the first time in my life, I wished I was older. Wiser. I wished desperately for the words to comfort us both. But I didn’t have them. I had only my own misery, and the willingness to keep his misery company.
The door squealed again as I closed it, cutting off the icy draft, and I crossed the scarred hardwood to sink cross-legged to the floor next to him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice was gruff, as if he had a cold. But he didn’t look up.
I inhaled deeply and nearly choked on the scent of tequila, though a glance around the room revealed no bottle and no glasses, other than the usual sticky, half-empty ones standing on cheap, scarred end tables around the room. But when I leaned forward and looked around Jace’s legs, I found a bottle of Jose Cuervo, a third of the way gone, no lid in sight.
“How’s your arm?”
“All sewn up, but even after Shifting twice, it looks like chopped sirloin. Still hurts like hell, but this works better than the doc’s big white pills.” He held up the bottle briefly.
“You probably should have taken the pills.”
“They only work on my arm,” he whispered, and I didn’t need to ask where else he hurt. The doctor’s pills couldn’t touch a broken heart. I knew that better than most.
I sighed and leaned against the couch, forcing my gaze back to my brother’s lifelong best friend, who was hurting every bit as much as I was. “Pass the bottle.”
He finally looked up, frowning. “You hate tequila.”
“I hate this more.” Surely a drink would quiet the incessant buzz of angry questions swarming my head so I could concentrate on one at a time.
Or so that maybe—for just a little while—I could think about nothing.
He passed the Cuervo with his good hand, and I guessed by the absence of a glass that we were drinking straight from the bottle. I turned it up without hesitation and made myself swallow twice. The alcohol burned bitterly going down, but if anything, it seemed to bring feeling back to my insides, which had been numb for the better part of the morning.
Jace took the bottle back and gulped from it, besting me by at least three swallows. This time he set it between us and met my gaze. Brown waves fell around his forehead, framing reddened eyes that blazed bright blue, shimmering with tears. “Why the hell would Calvin risk all-out war to snatch Kaci?”
Five minutes later, my mother emerged from the office, leaving silence in her wake. She crossed directly into the kitchen and pulled the teapot from the stove. I thought I was the only one who noticed her hand shaking until Owen rose to take the pot from her, dropping his hat in his chair on the way.
“I’m sorry, hon,” she whispered, stroking his arm as he set the pot on the tile countertop. I think she just wanted to touch him. To reassure herself that he was real. Because Owen was now her youngest son.
When she stopped shaking, my mother served us tea in tiny china cups that looked like toys in the guys’ huge hands. I sipped something spiced with cinnamon, but the ten minutes it took for me to drain my cup were pure torture. Dan kept glancing at the doorway, as if he wanted to leave but didn’t want to be rude. And didn’t know where to go. And it occurred to me then that he was stuck there with us, an outsider in our private hell.
My mother and Owen stared at the tabletop, occasionally wiping their eyes with a tissue from the box she’d put in the middle of the table, apparently content to suffer quietly.
I couldn’t take it. I could do silence on my own.
When my first cup was empty, I set it in the sink and announced that I was going to go check on Jace. No one even looked up.
My father was still alone in his office, staring down at his desk blotter, sipping from another short glass. Jace wasn’t in either the dining room or the living room, so on my way to the back door, I checked the room Ethan and Owen had shared, just in case. It was empty, thank goodness. I wasn’t sure I could handle being in there just yet.
I also checked on Kaci, who seemed to be sleeping now, rather than truly unconscious. She was even snoring lightly, and had turned onto her side, while Dr. Carver dozed in the chair beside her bed, his mouth hanging open. Now that I knew the kitten was okay. I couldn’t help hoping her nap would last a little while. I had to get myself under control before I could explain Ethan’s death to the thirteen-year-old he’d died defending.
I headed into the backyard, where the frozen grass—stubbornly resisting the weak warmth of the winter sun—reminded me that I’d forgotten my shoes. Instead of going back for them, I raced across the yard toward the guesthouse. The frigid air and bright morning light were invigorating, but did nothing to alleviate the black mood that had enveloped me with Ethan’s death and showed no sign of fading.
The rough wood planks of the guesthouse porch were a relief to my feet after sharp, icy blades of grass, and I paused to gather myself before going in. But my thoughts weren’t clear enough to truly organize, so I opened the door and stepped inside anyway. I’d have to wing it.
The door creaked and gave away my presence, but Jace didn’t look up. He sat on the floor, leaning against the beat-up couch with his knees bent in front of his chest, his heavily wrapped right arm draped over them. His head hung low, as if his neck would no longer support it. His shirt lay on the floor against the opposite wall, where he’d obviously thrown it after the doc had cut it off to tend to his injury.
In that moment, for the first time in my life, I wished I was older. Wiser. I wished desperately for the words to comfort us both. But I didn’t have them. I had only my own misery, and the willingness to keep his misery company.
The door squealed again as I closed it, cutting off the icy draft, and I crossed the scarred hardwood to sink cross-legged to the floor next to him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice was gruff, as if he had a cold. But he didn’t look up.
I inhaled deeply and nearly choked on the scent of tequila, though a glance around the room revealed no bottle and no glasses, other than the usual sticky, half-empty ones standing on cheap, scarred end tables around the room. But when I leaned forward and looked around Jace’s legs, I found a bottle of Jose Cuervo, a third of the way gone, no lid in sight.
“How’s your arm?”
“All sewn up, but even after Shifting twice, it looks like chopped sirloin. Still hurts like hell, but this works better than the doc’s big white pills.” He held up the bottle briefly.
“You probably should have taken the pills.”
“They only work on my arm,” he whispered, and I didn’t need to ask where else he hurt. The doctor’s pills couldn’t touch a broken heart. I knew that better than most.
I sighed and leaned against the couch, forcing my gaze back to my brother’s lifelong best friend, who was hurting every bit as much as I was. “Pass the bottle.”
He finally looked up, frowning. “You hate tequila.”
“I hate this more.” Surely a drink would quiet the incessant buzz of angry questions swarming my head so I could concentrate on one at a time.
Or so that maybe—for just a little while—I could think about nothing.
He passed the Cuervo with his good hand, and I guessed by the absence of a glass that we were drinking straight from the bottle. I turned it up without hesitation and made myself swallow twice. The alcohol burned bitterly going down, but if anything, it seemed to bring feeling back to my insides, which had been numb for the better part of the morning.
Jace took the bottle back and gulped from it, besting me by at least three swallows. This time he set it between us and met my gaze. Brown waves fell around his forehead, framing reddened eyes that blazed bright blue, shimmering with tears. “Why the hell would Calvin risk all-out war to snatch Kaci?”
